


I And Love And You

by coloursflyaway



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this sweet little prompt I got on Tumblr:<br/>Maybe some kind of AU, where Rich is a housekeeper, who loves classic Rock and likes a lot the "save the planet" way of life and one of his renter is Graham, who has a little (big) crush on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I And Love And You

Richard likes his job.  
He never expected that, not when his grandmother died six years ago and left him with a house and a small kitten and the promise to take care of both of them, but he does. It might be because the house is not too large, just four flats and his own, a little garden; it might be because it's not really a job in his mind, at least non which involves computers (which still confuse him sometimes) or fixed hours. It might be the gardening too, or the fact that he has always liked doing things with his hands, but Richard likes to believe that at least part of the fact that he enjoys his job so much is due to his tenants.

They are a sweet bunch, really, and Richard likes all of them, the Turners and their little boy, who live in the basement; Mrs. Brown and the man she has been engaged with for as long as Richard has known them, and her son Adam; Evangeline, who doesn't want to be called Miss, or Madam, who studies English and works in a bar nearby, and Mr. McTavish, who wants to be called Graham, which Richard still forgets about, even after two and a half years. He's ex-military, Richard knows that, is good with plants and has a small, gentle smile and a loud, joyous laugh.

He's lucky, he knows that, because he hears horrible stories wherever he goes, of ruined flats and long-overdue rents, of loud parties and drugs, but nothing like this has ever happened in his own house. The worst ruckus they ever get are the two boys' birthday parties, and Aidan and one of the boys from his school dropping by Richard's flat to visit his cat.  
Minerva, she used to be called, but Dean (the other boy, who is from New Zealand, as Aidan had told him proudly the first time he brought his new friend around) decided that she was far too sweet for such a long name. She's been called Minnie ever since.

So all in all, there is nothing Richard could complain about. Wants to complain about, really, because life right now, when it's summer and he is sitting in the sun, watching the roses he planted yesterday grow, is pretty much perfect. Almost perfect. Very, very close to perfect.  
Because even if he loves this, in fact, likes his life a lot more than he ever thought he would, sometimes, he'd like to have someone sitting next to him. To watch the roses together.

He doesn't get very far with that line of thought, though, and doesn't really mind it, because there are steps and a simple _Hi_ , and then Mr. McTa- _Graham_ is smiling at him. "You planted those?”, he asks, and points at the roses, which are still green, but will grow and bear large, snow-white blossoms. Richard is looking forward to seeing them.  
“Yeah, I had some time to spare yesterday and thought I could do something more productive than practice my air guitar skills.” He grins up at Graham, who looks even taller like this. “You like them?”

The other man takes a moment to think, or maybe just look, Richard is not entirely sure, then says, “I never was one for roses.” And Richard feels this ridiculous urge to dig them out again, buy something else, sunflowers perhaps, and see if Graham prefers those, even if only for a second.  
“… But I do like them, yes.” The other adds it like an afterthought, like there was something which made those roses special, and Richard feels his smile getting brighter.  
“They’re not red ones, I’m not that cheesy”, he says and Graham chuckles, raises an eyebrow.  
“Oh, I would have pitched you to be just that. But if you change your mind, you could still all paint them red, huh?”  
There is a twinkle in his eyes and it’s Richard’s turn to laugh, imagining himself running around and painting roses red.

He hums _White Rabbit_ for the rest of the day.

 

 

Eight days, that’s how long it takes until the first roses bloom, eight days of watering them and watching them and trying to explain Aidan that no, they could not just pull them out again and instead have carnivorous plants.  
They’re worth it, all of them, because once they have bloomed, they are gorgeous. Pure white petals fanning out, turned so that they are facing towards the sun, and Richard only thinks about painting them red once or twice.

Sometimes Graham is sitting on the bench when he comes downstairs, reading the papers or just enjoying the sun, and those days are the best ones, because after he has checked on the roses and the other plants, he can join the other. They don’t always talk, but when Richard leaves, he always does so with a smile on his face.

 

 

The roses bloom and wilt and bloom again, and before Richard knows it, a month has passed.  
It’s late in the evening, maybe around ten, maybe later, and there is a loud bang from the flat above, Graham’s flat. Which Richard probably should ignore, because it is none of his business, and after all Graham hasn’t woken him up or anything, but that plan lasts for exactly eight seconds, then he is up and out of the door.  
Up the stairs too, knocks and only then realises that he is already in his sweatpants, which are battered and washed out, and although Richard knows that Graham has seen him in far worse states already, he somehow cares. For some reason.

It's too late now, though, because there are footsteps approaching, and Richard can hear Graham swearing through the door, softly and yet with dedication; he stops before he opens the door but still looks sheepish.  
“Sorry”, he says instead of greeting, smiles at Richard, who can’t help but smile in return. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”  
“Ah, don’t worry about it, I wasn’t even close to sleeping”, Richard responds easily, because Graham actually looks a little guilty and there is no reason for that. “I just wanted to check if you’re alright. It sounded pretty bad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine, I just…I might have walked into my book shelf. And I might have knocked it over. But apart from four dozen unread books on my floor, everything is completely fine.” Graham chuckles, and rubs the back of his neck, a gesture which looks almost adorable for a man of his size.  
“Want me to help you clean it up?”, Richard offers without actually thinking about it too much, only realises that his heart is beating faster a moment too late. He doesn’t quite know why, it doesn’t make much sense, so Richard just ignores it, waits for Graham to respond. Which he does, only a few seconds later, looking as if his heart is beating a little too quickly too.  
“You really don’t have to, I mean, if you _want_ to, then I won’t mind, in fact it would be really nice, but you know. You don’t have to.”

“Don’t worry, I know that”, Richard answers with a smile, and steps closer, closer, until Graham lets him through. It's been months since he was last in the flat (because of a window that needed fixing, Graham had kept him company while he was working the entire time), but it looks exactly the same, tidy and comfortable.  
“So which poor shelf did you ruin?”, he asks, and Graham laughs, ushers him into the living room, where, really, one of the bookshelves is lying on the floor, books scattered everywhere. It’s not broken, that is at least something, Richard decides.

Between the two of them, it should only take a few minutes to have the shelf standing again and put some books inside (especially because Graham insists that it doesn’t matter in which order, he has so little time to read anyway), but it doesn’t. It takes almost half an hour until they have even picked up the shelf, because Richard asks about the window, and they talk about roses and the summer and if they should maybe all have a barbeque sometime.  
Which Graham thinks is a wonderful idea, and the grin Richard answers with is maybe a little too bright. He can’t help it, though, being around the other man just feels good. Perhaps feels even right.

They gather up the books, some tattered, some brand new, and Richard might just be standing too close to Graham when he puts them into the shelf again, their shoulders touching.  
It’s over far too quickly, and Richard wants to say he should leave, but Graham offers a glass of wine and Richard cannot ever say no to that. Or to sitting on a couch, the bookshelf still visible in the corner of his eyes and the other man next to him.  
It’s maybe a little more comfortable than it should be.

“So, what exactly did that shelf do to you?”, he asks after two sips of wine, and Graham next to him makes a sound which is half-chuckle and half-groan; it doesn’t seem to be the question he is really keen on answering.  
“Nothing, really, I was just going through some things I still had in boxes, because I was looking for something, and I wasn’t really paying attention. And up until two days ago, there was no shelf I could have walked into.” There is a hint of a sigh, a hint of a chuckle in his voice, but when Richard turns to look at the other, he doesn’t look quite as relaxed as he should be.  
There are at least three things he could say, ask – should say, too – but instead Richard takes a sip of wine, which is red and rich and very nice indeed, asks, “What were you searching for?”

If anything, Graham looks more uncomfortable now, flustered, as if he is trying very hard to think of a lie he could tell, when he replies, Richard can hear it’s the truth. “Ah, this is going to sound really ridiculous”, Graham warns him, which really doesn’t do more than make Richard more curious. “And you probably don’t even remember it, but I have this copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ still somewhere, and I just remembered it the other day, and Evangeline told me that you like books so I thought…”  
The other’s voice trails off, as if Graham isn’t really sure what more to say, and Richard knows that he should answer, or continue, or just really, _speak_ , but he cannot think of anything to say either.

“You… you and Evangeline talk about me?”, he finally asks, after far too much time and with his voice far too breathless (because it sounds ridiculous, somehow, but also like something he has been waiting to hear) and Graham – a middle-aged man, an ex-soldier, who probably has _killed people_ – blushes slightly. Just a hint of pink on his cheeks, disappearing under the other man’s beard, but it might be the sweetest thing Richard has ever see.  
“We did. Once. Okay, maybe twice. Not more often than that. Really.” Graham is not looking at him, not looking at anything, really, eyes just staring at a point somewhere behind Richard’s shoulder. While Richard is staring right at him.

The other man looks nervous and embarrassed and maybe a little bit hopeful, and Richard can’t look away. “I…”, he starts, wants to say, _don’t mind_. Wants to say, _like that thought_ , _hoped you did_ , but doesn’t. Instead his body leans in before his mind can catch up, and within a second, they are kissing. A soft, gentle kiss, because it takes Graham a few moments to catch up with what is happening, but Richard doesn’t mind that at all; it takes him a few minutes too.

 

 

It’s winter, and Richard misses the summer already. There are no more lazy afternoons, no sun burning down on them and making Richard run inside to get water or lemonade or iced tea a hundred times; the roses have withered and instead there is pure white snow covering the garden.  
Christmas is still a week away, but they are having a bit of a get-together, because Evangeline is going home over the holidays and the Turners are going skiing. Graham has helped with the decoration, not knocking over any shelves this time.  
There is tea and hot chocolate and Mrs. Brown has baked cookies, and Aidan and Adam are singing carols and begging their parents to be allowed to open their presents, and Graham is sitting next to him, tall and broad and warm. Taking his hand when Richard holds it out, strong finger wrapped around his almost gently.  
“This is nice”, he mutters out, because he doesn’t want to disturb the boys, who are singing _Last Christmas_ very falsely, but with enough enthusiasm to make up for it, and Graham hums, tightens his hold around Richard’s fingers.  
“It really is.” The other man’s voice is soft and warm and familiar, like a comfortable bed after a long day, and Richard raises their joined hands to his lips, kissing Graham’s knuckles.

The other man looks at him, and his eyes are sparkling; Richard wants to say something, but Graham is faster.  
“Spend Christmas with me?”, he asks, hopeful and sweet, “Just us, in my flat. Take out dinner and wine out of plastic cups and cheesy romantic comedies on tv. I’ve even got a present for you.”  
It’s not the perfect Christmas Richard dreamt of when he was younger, but that doesn’t matter, because it sounds perfect now, sounds like everything he needs.  
So he nods, nods and leans in to kiss Graham, not licking into the other’s mouth like he wants to, but promising himself to do that later. When they are alone and he can kiss the rest of Graham’s body as well.  
Says, “Yeah. I’d like that.”  
And smiles.

 

 

It’s the 25th of December, and Richard wakes up with marks on his throat and shoulders, a smile on his lips. He can hear Graham rummaging around in the kitchen, can smell breakfast, and when he turns around, there is a copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ on the pillow next to him.  
_For Richard_ it says when he opens it, neat, clear letters, which Richard recognises so well by now. Nothing more, because neither of them is a teenager anymore, who needs reassurance all the time, needs flowery rhymes and poetry, and it’s a little perfect, just like Graham is a little bit perfect sometimes.  
Richard thinks that maybe he’ll plant red roses next spring.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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